


Tears

by scarcrow11



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4975942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarcrow11/pseuds/scarcrow11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written after looking up "depression quotes" on google images for an hour, then going to bed. In a fit of inspiration, I then typed this up on my phone.</p><p>I should emphasise that I AM NOT DEPRESSED. This is just a response from my imagination when it finds a new "world" (or perhaps perception on the world is better in this case) and then imagines what it would be like to live in that world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tears

I cry.

I can’t hold it together anymore. The voice keeps whispering and it guides me through the thick haze that surrounds. Is it doing what’s best for me? I don’t know. It drags me to a place I wish I could forget. But I need to be lying in my bed right now. I need to let it out.

An audible whine comes from knife hidden under my bed as I take it out, waving it slowly to some unseen lullaby. As the blade settles onto my wrist, I realise something. I don’t want to. I don’t have the drive, the spirit, the perseverance to follow through with this.

“Oh, fuck you. You’re a fucking coward. I’ll do it.”

It takes over. My thoughts and actions are now puppet to its whim. The blade moves down, and the weak skin of my wrist gives way to the veins easily. The red river begins to flow, dripping down my hand as I feel an invigorating sensation rush up my arm, something I have not felt in a long time. Pain.

How absurd.

How meaningless.

How stupid.

 

How wonderful.

 

I cry.

Not because of the pain, or the crimson waterfall, but because I didn’t do this. It did. I’m the coward who had the impulse and couldn’t give a shit about doing something about it.

I cry.

I watch as my vision gets blurred, my room begins to lose the light the sun cast upon it a few minutes ago. I turn and drop my head onto the pillow. My only warm embrace. The tears keep flowing, drenching my sullen face with a path from the bottomless spiles that are my eyes, dripping off my chin, and coating the pillow in salty water.

It murmurs sweet nothings to my mind as I drift off from the blood loss.

Maybe it’s better this way.


End file.
